Race Report: 2007 PCRS #4

Today's race was a definite improvement over last week's fiasco on the single speed. With the geared bike I was able to keep my main rival within sight, but he still beat me.

Right from the start Doug (Saturn jersey, behind 258) rode away from the field:



I (502) was in the next group trying to keep former Rio Strada teammate Jerry (517) in sight:



The pace was high and it hurt a bit. Jerry's power on this week's flat course was too much for me:



I worked hard and took chances throughout the race, weaving through slower traffic:



In the end I had just enough. Doug easily won the race, with Jerry taking third. Greg missed the race, taking him out of overall points contention for now.

I managed a sixth out of 28 finish to retain first overall. I now led Jerry by only one point, 80 to 79.

Later.

Race Report: 2007 PCRS #3

Entering race three, my goal for the series changed considerably. The races weren't just for training anymore. I had the series points lead, and I wanted to keep it.

After easily winning the first race I ever entered on a single speed, I thought there was some sort of magic in using that single gear. I guess as a bike racer I'm just as superstitious as a Dominican shortstop. So even though conditions were once again dry, I opted to race the single speed in race number three.

My friend Doug, who would be a teammate for the upcoming Coolest 24-hour race, came out to race with me. He too was looking for some extra training. As it turned out, I don't think he really needed any training.

We took off from the start and I once again spun like crazy to get out front. We blasted down a gradual, rolling hill and I managed to stay near the leaders.



Doug (546) was behind me a bit, but wouldn't be there for long.



Then we hit a long, gradual climb and everything quickly unraveled. I did the best I could to spin and keep up, but I was losing places at a frightening rate. All the guys with gears just rode away. One damn hill.

The rest of the race was simply an exercise in damage control. I turned myself inside-out and rode harder in that race than I had in many, many years.

Every few years in the Tour de France some lowly domestique finds himself in the yellow jersey in the early stages. If not for some fortuitous breakaway, or simply a complete lack of respect by the peloton that let him gain time, he would not be in the yellow jersey. This man is merely a place holder for the real contenders when they decide to show their cards. I felt like that guy. No way I would wear the jersey into Paris.

I managed to pass a few guys by the finish line to salvage 9th out of 33. Doug took third and made it look quite easy.

Riding the single speed was a big mistake. Still, I stayed close enough to my two main rivals, Jerry and Greg, to maintain a tie for first place.

Later.

Race Report: 2007 PCRS #2

It was a dark and stormy day . . .

I kept an eye on the Doppler radar all day hoping for a break for the Wednesday night race, but the rain came in steady waves. At about 2:00 I decided not to race. Who wants to go race in the mud for what amounts to a training session? Not me.

Jenn arrived home from work around 4:10 and something told me to go race. However, I wasn't ready. I rationalized that the very dry, dusty conditions of the previous week might mean less mud. Besides, the sky was clearing a bit and my driveway was actually drying out.

If there was a little mud, I didn't want to ride my geared hardtail and deal with the maintenance after the race. My Karate Monkey single speed was the logical choice—cheap, simple and bombproof. Although the gearing was a bit low for the flat course of Prairie City, and the tires fat and heavy, I didn't have time to make any changes.

After quickly throwing together my gear, I headed to the race, gulping down a granola bar and a Gatorade on the way. Ill-prepared as always.

As soon as I hit the highway, it began pouring. My last check of the radar revealed only spotty activity in northern California. I guess I was just in one of those "spots."

When I arrived at the race, the parking lot was a quagmire. I sat there for a minute with the engine running, and nearly went home. Letting out a heavy sigh, I turned off the ignition. Something made me stay.

I registered, dressed, and went out for a warmup ride. Immediately mud began flying up all over me and my bike. Horrible conditions already, and hundreds of racers pounding the trails would only make it worse. The week before I rode three warmup laps, but this time I did one. It just wasn't worth it to warm up at the cost of coating the bike in 20 pounds of mud. On the positive side, my legs felt outstanding.

I rolled to the start and hoped the rain would stay away.

As we lined up for the start, the rain started coming down again. The racers groaned in unison. The race organizer announced that because of the rainy start, double-points would be awarded per series rules. Racers cheered and clapped.

As my 40-49 Sport class staged, I decided on my strategy: go hard until I detonate. I had never raced a single speed before, and I really had no idea how I would fair against geared riders. Because of my 8th out of 36 finish in the first week's race, I didn't see myself as a contender for the overall title. I decided to experiment with these races—trying different bikes, gearing, warmup techniques and nutrition products.

We took off and I spun my brains out on the slight downhill. I wanted to be towards the front for the first climb, as I knew from the preride that someone would fumble on it. We flew down the fireroad and I killed myself to keep up with the geared riders. As we settled in I counted four guys in front of me. A quick look behind revealed . . . nobody. We had a big gap and had essentially made a selection in the first half-mile. The hairpin turn came and two guys took it too wide. I went up the inside, took a few hard pedal strokes and crested the steep hill. The fat Exiwolf tires passed their first traction test on the smooth, slick river rock. I heard a tire slip behind me, followed by someone saying "shit" as they hit the ground.

I sat in third place for a while, happy to ride behind two guys who I knew I would eventually pass. The trails were wet and very slippery, with exposed river rock everywhere. Already we were encountering a lot of traffic from younger Sport racers who started minutes ahead of us. Many riders were struggling mightily in the bad conditions.

The rain continued to pour over us and the conditions kept deteriorating. I stayed on my guy's wheel, and we steadily plugged away, weaving through traffic. Already bikes were strewn about as mechanical issues and crashes took their toll.

We passed through the start-finish area where people tend to slow down, so I hit the accelerator and passed some riders, including the guy I was following. I could tell that the mud was working on people's psyche; they were going into survival mode. With each person I passed, I grew stronger. Now in second place, I continued to pursue the leader.

Lap two saw conditions getting even worse. The mud was deep and sticky in some places, yet very slick in others. My gearing couldn't have been more perfect. I spun along comfortably, yet ate people up.

In the middle of lap two, I closed in on very large woman clad from head to toe in tight black Lycra. Her tights couldn't quite contain her ample body, and I got a good view of her mud covered ass spilling out the top. Sometimes ninjas should just admit they were born sumo wrestlers.

She heard me approaching behind her and attempted to pull to the side so I could pass. As she did, she lost traction and fell heavily to her left. Immediately she began to wail. "My shoulder's dislocated!" she screamed. To me this expert diagnosis seemed a bit quick. I stopped and asked what I could do, and she asked me to untangle her from the bike. I tried to remove her foot from the pedal, but the mud was everywhere, and I couldn't break it loose. She screamed again in my face, "Just take the fucking shoe off!" I grabbed hold of her meaty ankle and wrenched the shoe off.

Meanwhile, racers were flying past.

She then asked me to roll her upright. When I tried, she screamed at me once again. "Not like that, dammit! Didn't I just say my shoulder is dislocated?" At this point, my sympathy ran thin. She showed me where to place my hand, and I rolled the big, doughy woman upright. As she righted herself, another woman pulled up and asked if everything was OK. I said, "Yeah, stay with her until help comes." I grabbed my bike and took off. Cold-hearted I suppose, but she was blaming me for falling over and I wasn't anywhere near her. Anyway, it's RACING.

About 60 seconds and 25 people passed by, which was going to make achieving a good result more difficult. But I took off and simply tried to keep it straight and apply even, steady power to the pedals. Most of the carnage I saw was from people panicking, pedaling in squares, and jerking the bike around. Smooth and steady was my mantra. Smooth and steady.

I began picking people off one by one, and by the climb leading to the start/finish, I had my guy back in my sights. I rolled up to him, rested a bit, and accelerated hard past him. As I crossed over the line, a woman said "first 500" to the guy in front of me (meaning 40+ Sport) and "second 500" to me. I caught up to the guy and said, "Are you winning?" He said, "I think so." So I dropped him. Easily.

The third lap saw me passing many, many people, and not a single racer passed me. It was great. I made my way through much of the Expert class and single speed class. There was one mud bog, about 100 yards long, where everyone was walking. I made it through on the first two laps, but by the third lap it was unrideable for me also. Mud packed up the tires and piled around the frame. After scraping it out with my hands, I kept going. Towards the end of the third lap I finally made a mistake and went down hard in some river rocks. I banged my right knee, but it wasn't too bad.

At the finish, I was pretty sure I had won. However, it wasn't until the results were posted the next day that I knew for sure—first out of 27.

Now I just had to go home and freshen up a bit.

With the double points awarded for a rain day, I took the lead in the series by two points.

It turned out to be a race people would talk about for years, and one I will always remember.

Later.

Race Report: 2007 PCRS #1

The Prairie City Race Series has existed for about 15 years now. For years I always meant to enter the fray, but never did for one reason or another. With the 2007 Coolest 24 race looming in early May, and my fitness level not quite where I wanted it to be, I thought getting a few mid-week training races in my legs would be just what I needed.

I signed up online for the 40-49 Sport Class. I considered racing Expert because they raced an extra lap, but thought better of it. As much as I needed the training, I didn't need the humiliation of being crushed by much faster racers.

Warm weather greeted us for the first race of the series. I took a few warm-up laps to familiarize myself with the course. Conditions were dry and dusty. I lined up at the start knowing that getting to the front would be important due to the dust.

We took off and I managed to enter the first corner in third position. I held that spot down the long straightaway downhill:



I kept third place for the whole lap. I had a solid gap on the line of people behind me, but the two in front of me were pulling away. Unfortunately, I started fading midway through the second lap. Someone passed me. Then another. And another. I didn't have the aerobic fitness to maintain the early pace I set, and I paid for it.

By the end of the race I slipped to 8th place out of 36. Not bad, but not the top five I had hoped for.

The only other thing worth mentioning was this guy who fell and nicked his chin a bit:



Yeah, that's blood splattered all over his legs and bike. Yes, he toughed it out for the whole race. Respect!

Later.

Race Report: Boggs II

My first foray into endurance racing earlier today didn't really turn out as well as I would have liked.

I arrived home from work yesterday totally drained. I was the lone representative of my work group, and a number of problems were waiting for me as soon as I walked in the door. It was an extremely stressful and crazy day for a Friday. When the chaos finally subsided, I picked up Spencer from daycare and headed home.

Once at home I changed clothes, grabbed a snack and headed out to the garage. I gave my bike a half-hearted cleaning and tune-up. I went to the grocery store and picked up some supplies. Then I went home and sat in my chair in front of the TV for a while to unwind. I started debating whether I really wanted to race today. I was so damned tired.

During dinner I made the decision to blow off the race. I was just too tired.

As I lie awake in bed, trying to shut down my brain, I started feeling guilty about not racing. I fell asleep still undecided a little after 10:00.

I woke up at 3 a.m. and decided not to go. Then I woke up at 4:00 and decided to go. Since I had not finished with preparations the night before, I ran around the house and simply grabbed anything cycling-related that came into view. My original goal was to be on the road by 4:00, but I left at 4:45. I would have to put the hammer down to make registration.

I drove like an idiot and made it to the registration table at 7:40, 20 minutes before registration closed. After making it through the long line, I then had 30 minutes to get dressed and ready for the 8:30 start.

I decided to go with water bottles and jersey pockets over the Camelbak route. I would probably do that again, even though the course offered few places to drink from a bottle. I liked being able to stop at the truck and trade out bottles and throw a few things in the pockets rather than fumbling with the Camelbak. I also don't like putting energy drink in the Camelbak.

As I was getting ready, there were people warming up 30 minutes before the race. I found this quite odd. I mean, I can understand spinning around a bit, but people were actually climbing a steep hill and hitting it very hard. I heard that most of the course was singletrack, so I expected the first lap to be slow, which would offer plenty of time to get warmed up.

Right before the start of almost every race is the rider meeting where the course and rules are discussed. It's terribly exciting:

Everyone lined up and I was surprised how many people there were. As I looked around, and the vast majority were solo racers (blue numbers) and many of those were on single speeds.

The gun went off (a real gun, a first) and I rolled into my first 8-hour race.

That's me! Second from the left.

The course had elements that reminded me of the Connector Trail, Sly Park and Georgetown, with a pinch of Oregon sprinkled in. The 9.2 mile course went like this: a fireroad climb to start (surprise), singletrack climb then decent, fireroad climb, awesome singletrack descent, tough singletrack climb, rolling singletrack for a while, a fire road climb, and a rolling singletrack downhill to the finish.

The first lap was slow, as expected—a long line of people snaking through winding singletrack. No problems on the first lap other than about 20 of us missing a turn. It only cost us a couple minutes to get turned around.

The riders spread out over the second lap, and I was enjoying the ride. The singletrack sections were really nice. Much of the trail was carpeted in pine needles and was pretty smooth, with rocks here and there and the occasional rock garden. Midway through the lap I had a bee fly into my helmet and sting me. It hurt for an hour or so, but after that I forgot all about it.

After lap two I pitted and swapped out my bottles. I scarfed down some food and drank some Gatorade. I felt slightly full, but that was OK. There was nothing on the course that put you into the red, so little chance of puking. I was back on the course in less than five minutes.

Lap three was uneventful. I rode most of it alone, passing the occasional rider. I was jumping off every lip and water bar I could find, just riding for fun and not really racing.



Towards the end of lap three was the first time I felt a little fatigue, which made sense because I was just approaching my typical mountain bike ride length of around 30 miles.

Lap four was more of the same—just riding and having fun. I started to feel more fatigue in my legs, so I slowed down a little to conserve energy. On the two steep sections of the course, I went down into my small chainring for the first time. Towards the end of the lap, I felt the first twinge of a cramp.

I pitted after lap four, eating more food and swapping out bottles. I lubed my dry chain and downed more water and Gatorade. I was surprised to feel a cramp because I had adhered to my "one bottle per lap" plan and I supplemented it with more fluids at rest and pit stops. After a 10 minute break, I rolled out for lap five.

Early in the lap on a downhill, I started feeling the cramp again. It was in my right calf and into my inner quad. I started downhilling right foot forward, which felt really awkward, but that stopped the cramping for the time being. But on the first steep uphill, both legs cramped up. I hopped off the bike and drank a whole bottle of Endurox while walking up the climb. I hopped back on at the top and continued riding. For the rest of the lap I rode gingerly on the climbs, spinning as much as possible. At the rest stop I was desperate enough to drink two cups of Red Bull (vile stuff) and a cup of water. I felt twinges throughout the lap, but no full-on cramps. An unfortunate situation, because except for the cramps, I had really good legs.

I pitted after lap five and drank even more water, Gatorade and Gu2O. It was only 70 degrees! I couldn't comprehend why I was cramping so badly after only 46 miles. I looked on the floor of the truck and there were SIX empty cycling water bottles, two 12 ounce water bottles and two empty Gatorade bottles. What the hell? It sure seemed like a lot of fluid. I sat in the truck while my legs twitched and spasmed. I really wanted six laps, but it wasn't looking good. Even though I had three hours until the cutoff to complete the lap, I didn't know if time would fix this.

After 30 minutes of resting, my legs actually felt worse. I was bummed out. I figured it's now or never, so I climbed on the bike and set off. As soon as the road pointed up I started feeling the cramps lurking. I turned onto the singletrack where the grade steepened, and both legs quickly cramped. I hopped off and uttered some profanities. I wanted the sixth lap, but I wasn't sure if I could endure an hour or more of the cramping, or whether it was even worth it. I stretched, drank a few gulps of water, and tried it again. No dice. I was done.

I rolled back to the truck going the wrong way on the course. A few people offered encouragement to keep going, but no amount of positive energy could reverse my situation. Back at the truck I sat down and both legs seized up. I had to stand up and walk around for a while. I went to the start-finish tent and took three bottles of water, which I promptly drank.

At that point my mood was pretty dark, so I decided to blow off the awards and raffle and go home. The cramps made changing clothes difficult. Every time I moved either leg powerful cramps struck. It felt like someone jamming an ice pick deep into my muscles.

I left at 3:00. I struggled with cramps every time I needed to shift gears. I was relieved to hit open highway where I didn't have to work the clutch. I arrived home a little before 6:00—a very long day on very little sleep.

Final stats: 5 laps, 47 miles, 5:11 riding time, 12th out of 15 in 40+ Solo.

I have always struggled with cramps, but never like I experienced in this race. If I can figure out the cramp situation, I see little reason why I can't knock out 7 laps next year.

Later.

Time

I am getting old.

I know this because there isn't enough time to do all the things I want to do. If this sounds a bit too much like some Jim Croce lyrics, sorry. It was completely unintentional, although it did sound somewhat familiar as I wrote it.

So I am either a plagiarist, or the lack of time as you grow older is a universal truth, one that Jim and I and every other aging guy realizes at some point in his life.

I started this BLOG almost four months ago with every intention of posting to it with some regularity. Time, that slippery commodity--or more precisely, the lack of it--has prevented this.

OK, that isn't entirely true. There was time. Lots of it. I just chose to spend my limited time doing other things. Time is like money: it's all in how you spend it.

Unlike money, though, with time we all live on the same fixed budget. Every day you are given a meager 24-hour stipend to spend as you see fit. You will never get a promotion, a cost-of-living increase, or win the lottery. You get 24 hours, every day, week after week, year after year, until you punch out. How much time you are allotted after that is open to debate. I'm hoping for 100-hour days.

A younger guy, he might try four hours of sleep, eight hours of work, a couple hours for maintenance (showering, eating, ironing a dirty shirt) and a full 10 hours of fun. I did that for a time, while my young body could handle it, and it was great. Those were the days.

Now, at 37, with a family, you shoot for an hour of fun per day. If that.

Now before you get offended, especially if you're female--and REALLY especially if you're my wife--let me explain. There are many, many aspects of day-to-day family life that are enjoyable and fun. The trips to the park, the music in the car, the movies, the milk-out-the-nose hilarity at dinner, your toddler's developing personality, that hug when you get home from work, spending $700 on groceries at Costco, etc. All those things are great, and you wouldn't give them back for all the free time in the world.

Still, you ARE a guy, and as prepared as you thought you were for this new life, you wonder: Where the hell did my 10 hours of fun go?

Starting a family is like having a free-time garage sale. You haul all the contents of your garage out onto the driveway, pick up each item, and say, "Do I really need this?"

- Seinfeld reruns - out
- Fishing - out
- Drinking/pool/darts with the guys - severely limited
- Recreational reading - limited
- Watching or listening to 162 three-hour San Francisco Giants baseball games - out (I actually did this one year--all 162 of them)
- Watching 82 Sacramento Kings games on TV - in
- General garage tinkering - limited
- Weight lifting - out
- Riding bicycles - slightly limited
- Maintenance of bicycles - severely limited
- Racing bicycles - severely limited

So you trade in your Giants games, the ones that break your heart more often than not, for more meaningful things like changing diapers; both are entertaining in their own unique ways, and both often end with shit.

I'm better off without those losers anyway.

If this sounds like whining and complaining, so be it. But the truth is all these time restrictions are self-imposed, and I know that. Above all you want to be a DEVOTED HUSBAND and GOOD FATHER. I have no idea how to actually BE these things. I don't know that any man does right out of the gate. So far I'm about as good at these things as I am at juggling hamsters. I'm getting better, sure, but the pile of dead hamsters is getting frighteningly large.

The secret, I'm finding, is to not give anything up, but to keep at least a sliver of everything. Watch Seinfeld once in a while, go hang out with the guys once a month, and include your kids in your fishing and bike riding. Simple in theory, but it takes effort.

I used to ride my bike quite a bit. I've been riding my bike quite a bit for the better part of 20 years. The bike is an old friend, one I have known and loved since age four. As recently as two years ago, I was riding as much as 650 miles a month--pretty good for a guy who works full-time. And going back even further, when I was young and had those ten hours of free time, 1000 miles a month wasn't unheard of. This year my high month is 357 miles.

To a casual observer, that may seem like a lot of miles on a bicycle, and I guess it is. It's just not what I'm used to. It's not even the lack of mileage that I miss, it's the fitness level; I miss the speed, power and endurance I once had.

Cycling is a sport that only gets more enjoyable as your fitness improves. The feeling that comes from slicing through the air at a high rate of speed, the power generated with your own legs, is intoxicating. Cresting a tough climb without even breathing hard is a great feeling. Completing a long ride, and still feeling fresh at the end, is always satisfying. Those things come with lots of miles and time. Miles and time.

Every cyclist has at least a little racer in him. I have a little more than most, and that's what makes getting older that much tougher. I used to be very serious about racing, and I've even won a few races here and there. I still race a little, when the mood strikes me, in the VETERAN'S class. Yes, at 35 you are an old man as far as cycling goes, and banished to the vet class.

Whether they will admit to it or not, most cyclists imagine they are racing at some point during a ride. Sometimes you chase imaginary racers up a climb, other times powering away from ghostly pursuers on a long, flat road. Young and old, thin and fat, we all do it. It's just a hell of a lot easier for me to pretend I'm Lance Armstrong if my body looks more like his than John Goodman's.

Lately, more and more, I participate in those races of the imaginary kind. And, more and more, I'm feeling OK with it. I must say, even with my lack of training time, I win a lot. My invisible rivals are surprisingly slow and out of shape. If they expect to beat a guy like me, they really need to ride more. If they did 357 miles a month, like I do, they might just have a chance.

One

I suppose it's the non-conformist in me that took an immediate dislike to this blogging nonsense, yet it appears I am now posting to my very own BLOG. Wee. I'm somebody now. Look at me.

I'm not sure why I'm doing it, or what changed my thinking, but I guess I am going to find out. This may be the first and last post. Too close to call at this point.

I've always fancied myself as a writer, and I have enjoyed writing at various times in my life. At least I think I enjoyed it. Maybe, just maybe, I enjoyed the praise from readers more than I actually liked the writing.

I remember the very moment when I realized writing was merely a dream, a fantasy. I was in a bookstore scrounging through the bargain bin when I came across what looked like a nice hardback novel. The title escapes me now, but I can still picture the author inside the dustcover. He was about 30, average looking, posing on a split-rail fence, the ocean behind him. He had that "I'm on top of the world" grin on his face, the one that says, "I made it." It was his first novel. The original price was $24.95, but the book had been marked down to one dollar. A buck. This guy's crowning achievement, what may have taken years to complete, was worth a whole dollar.

THAT would have killed me. I couldn't even imagine walking into a bookstore and seeing my work reduced to bargain bin filler, a paper weight, a doorstop. My brain is not wired to handle that kind of rejection. At least it wasn't back then, back when I was writing.

The dream never really dies, though. Sure, you're never going to be paid to write, but you get your fix here and there, whether it's telling your buddy a story through e-mail, or making the driest software manual somewhat entertaining, it never really dies, this dream. Like that girl next door you grew up with, one day she just looks different. She was always there, but now you really see her.

Now I'm 37 and my first child is 15 months old. I've been in the computer industry, the path I stumbled upon when the writing stopped, for 14 years. For some reason, on this day, things seem a little bit different. Perhaps it's my age, or fatherhood, or my computer industry shelf-life expiring, or simply this blog giving me the outlet. I'm not sure what it is, but today the feeling is different. Today I think I can write again.

So I type on the keyboard, just like I do every single day. Yet today, these words, they just look different.